


Home

by TheBashfulPoet



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, but it is mentioned, nothing graphic in any shape or form, references to Andrew's past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13229064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBashfulPoet/pseuds/TheBashfulPoet
Summary: The house in Columbia was never meant to be home. Just another place in a long list that Andrew has stopped at until the next one came along. Yet, all the same, this place and home slowly came to mean the same thing.Or how Andrew slowly comes to find a home in Columbia through three people.





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea kind of hit me one morning and I just HAD to write it. It was so nice to get the inspiration to write after taking a break from it for a while, so I hope my writing isn't too rusty and you enjoy this short(ish?) fic!
> 
> Quick note for those of you only here for the Andreil, I explore more of that relationship in the last two sections of this fic, but I highly suggest reading it all the way through :)

# I. Nicky

            When Nicky first suggested getting a new place for the three of them to live, Andrew never saw the point. With Tilda gone they had a perfectly good two-bedroom apartment all to themselves. While having his own room would be preferable (the idea of a locked space only he had access to almost enticing enough to say yes), he wasn’t sure it would be worth the hassle of moving yet again. All the same, Nicky pushed, and Andrew could easily see that his brother was in agreement (even if he dare not vocalize in fear of crossing their deal in some way).

            So, in a rare form of concession, (not that he’d ever admit to such) he agreed. That’s how he found himself staring up at the modest two-story home in the middle of some small neighborhood in Columbia while some overly perky blonde realtor smiles and prattles on about the many features the home has to offer including the quiet neighborhood, the spacious backyard and- Andrew stops listening halfway and lets his eyes drift over the building. It wasn’t anything special, the walls painted a muted yellow with white trimmings. Just another house as far as Andrew could tell. Yet, as his gaze wandered over to his companions he can see something glimmer in Nicky’s eyes. Its’ a look filled with contemplation and thought, a glimmer of hope dancing in those brown irises and a small smile tugging at his lips. It’s as if he sees something more than just walls and a roof. He knows then that this will be his next stop for however long.

            He turns and squints at the building one more time, trying to see whatever it is Nicky saw. In the end, it’s still just another house.

***

            Buying the house was about as bothersome as Andrew first thought it was going to be. First, they needed to put in an offer and hope the owners were willing to accept it. Next was finding a way to fund the entire process with Nicky only just being of age and Andrew and Aaron still being considered minors for another year at least. In the end, it takes both Nicky’s boyfriend Eric’s help to pay the initial down payment and Luther to cosign the bank loan (that in itself a miracle). If Andrew had any say, his uncle would be as far from this place as possible, the sting of their “misunderstanding” still too sharp and fresh as ever. But Nicky’s refusal of Aaron’s half of the money they got from Tilda’s life insurance put them in a tight spot that needed the extra support even with the shit market. Thus, Andrew must suffer the presence of Luther one final time as they sign the last bits of paperwork before they get the keys to the house.

            Andrew is leaning against the porch railing with a cigarette burning between his lips as he watches Nick and his father trade hushed words at the end of the driveway. Luther’s face is a stern mask of disapproving fury; his mouth pressed into a tight line as Nicky meekly says whatever it is. His head is bowed and his fingers twisting together at his front. Andrew is about to step down when Luther abruptly shakes his head and presses a small package into Nicky’s hands before stalking off to his car and driving away. Nicky watches the car for a few minutes, his shoulders hunched and his tall body curling in on itself, before turning and making his way to the porch.

            “What did he want,” Andrew says with a puff of smoke, voice flat to disguise the faintest spark of interest.

            Nicky looks sad as he smiles in return, a far-off look in his eyes and mouth pulled too tight to be genuine. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

            Andrew accepts the evasion for what it is and instead points to his cigarette at the box in his hands. “And that?”

            “No idea. Dad just said it was from Mom. Some housewarming gift or something.”

            He pulls off the lid and barely manages to suppress the flinch as his eyes land on what’s inside. Andrew peeks over to see a wooden cross resting in the small case, the words God loves the blessed carved in loopy cursive lettering. Nicky is silent for far too long before he releases a soft chuckle.

            “Just like Mom. Always said a house was no good without a cross. I guess this is her way of saying good luck I guess.”

            From the way Nicky reacted, Andrew is willing to bet the opposite. Still, he stares back in silence as Nicky runs a finger absently over the wooden stick.

            “Are you assholes going to help me move shit or are you going to stand here all day?” Aaron growls as he shoves past Nicky with a box.

            Nicky laughs, something more genuine this time, and ruffles Aaron’s hair before ducking into the house. Andrew takes another drag of his cigarette and lets the smoke fill his lungs.

***

            Living in Columbia is nothing special. Andrew claims the bigger of the two rooms upstairs and leaves Aaron and Nicky to fight over who got the sole room on the bottom floor. Nicky won it after threatening to have loud sex in the squeakiest bed he could find if Aaron didn’t back off (the room was directly below the third upstairs). Once living arrangements were sorted, Nicky began what Andrew could only call nesting. He bought all the furniture for the common areas of the house and poured hours into choosing the right shade of white to paint the hallways/den (Do you like eggshell or ivory better?). It was disgusting, and Andrew absolute refused to indulge in his cousin’s antics, denying him access to his own room when Nicky had finally run out of house to decorate. He ignored the please that fell from his lips (oh come on Andrew! This color would look so great as an accent wall) and even more so the glee that seemed to take up permanent residence in his gaze. It was a look that screamed pride in his accomplishments, especially as the house began to fill up with trinkets and items they picked up from work or school.

            The cross Nicky’s mother had given them somehow ended up in the entryway next to the stairs. It was one of the first pieces you would see when in through the front door and was placed just so that you could still see in from the den in the recliner that Nicky always seemed to favor. Maybe that’s why Nicky stares at it so much.

            Sometimes, Andrew will come home, and Nicky will be standing right in front of it, drink in hand, arm wrapped around his torso as if to hold himself together, and the same far-off look in his eyes he had when he first got the damn thing. He would be lying if he said he understood why he kept the damn thing (foster care didn’t really encourage the whole sentimentality thing) and thinks everyone, especially Nicky, would be better off if he just threw it in the trash where it belongs. But it stays, dampening every good mood Nicky may have the moment his eyes catch a glimpse of it.

            It also was the first thing Nicky sought out every time Aaron berates or bemoans Nicky’s sexuality or any mention of Eric. It’s a constant source of contention between the two of them; Aaron unable to get past his own homophobic views and Nicky unwilling to hide who he is. It is during another one of those arguments that Andrew has decided that he has had enough.

            Aaron is going on an on about how disgusting it was to hear Nicky coo over Eric during a call this morning at breakfast and how unnatural it was, and blah blah blah. (Sometimes he wondered how he would react to know his own twin was gay.) Nicky, never one to pass up a moment to snap back at his cousin with some overly dramatic remark, alters the moment his eyes find that stupid cross. Instead, the words die in his throat and Andrew can see his body slowly sagging in on itself.

            “Sorry, I’ll try to-”

            Andrew is already across the room and reaches for the stick, bringing it down harshly onto the floor and shattering it into pieces. Nicky and Aaron Jump.

            “Jesus, Andrew!” Nicky gasps.

            “What the actual fuck,” Aaron glowers, “Aunt Maria gave us that!”

            Andrew merely shrugged, “I was sick of looking at it.”

            He strolls back to the living room as if he didn’t just abruptly (and a little violently) smash a symbol of god and picks up the book he was reading. “If you don’t like to hear Nicky, try going into another room next time.”

            Aaron growls, “I shouldn’t have to! I was _eating_ , he should be the one to leave. Besides it’s not natural what he’s doing!”

            Andrew levels him with a bored look, “On the contrary, sex is very natural. When a mommy and daddy love each other very much they fuck. Sometimes it’s a mommy and a mommy or a daddy and a daddy.”

            “It’s still gross,” his brother huffs.

            “That sounds like a you problem.”

            Aaron glares at him, but Andrew simply turns the page. Eventually, his twin must have enough because he gives up and storms up out of the room and up the stairs. Nicky remains glued in his spot, eyes unable to move from the now broken pieces of the cross.

            “Clean it up,” Andrew says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “And throw it away.”

            Nicky remains fixed.

            “ _Nicky_.” His tone snaps his cousin from his trance. “Now.”

            “Y-yeah,” Nicky stutters as he walks over.

            As he gathers the wooden bits in his hand, Andrew carefully watches his face for signs of what is going through his cousin’s mind. Shock, fear, and sadness all quickly flash across his features until finally, they settle into relief.

            “Yeah,” he says again, voice much stronger as he picks up the last of the pieces, “This didn’t really belong in our home anyways.”

            Andrew says nothing, returning to his book as Nicky stands to throw it away. A few months later it is replaced with a photo of him, Eric, Andrew and Aaron sitting in the backyard. The far-off glance was not seen again.

# II. Aaron

            While Nicky took to the house like a fish to water, Andrew noticed that his twin did not adjust as quickly. It was ironic really. He had been such an adamant proponent for moving in the first place and now he was the last to find his bearing in their new “home.” Even Andrew had managed to find a balance in his new surroundings, easily settling into his new room and making himself comfortable about the place (a skill perfected by his fifth home as a child. Comfortable but never unguarded).

            Aaron seemed to struggle with this concept, a rigidity to his posture whenever he was in the house where the others were. He would go as far to tiptoe around like a ghost, movements silent as if to mask his presence and giving no clues he was there. It was a movement Andrew was only all too familiar with both from past homes and what he had seen in those few months with Tilda. It was just enough to piss him off. So, Andrew did what he always did best; he set out to fix the problem.

            He started out slow, slamming everything closed with more force than necessary. Windows, cupboards, doors, it didn’t matter. Every time he left a room it would ring throughout the house. Aaron, predictably, flinched at every noise. Nicky, on the other hand, tried to figure out what was wrong.

            “You okay Andrew?” He asked one morning after Andrew had slammed both the refrigerator door and the cabinet.

            Andrew looks over at his cousin and brother who were seated at the table eating breakfast, Aaron rigidly straight in his chair and staring at his mostly untouched bowl of cereal. It was almost as if he was waiting for fists to start flying.

            “Peachy. Why?” He slams shut a drawer.

            “You just seem a little-” Andrew sets the bowl roughly on the table with a clatter, “Angry.”

            Andrew doesn’t answer until he’s had a mouthful. “Nope.”

            Nicky looks like he doesn’t believe him, but when faced with Andrew’s mask of indifference, he had little left to do besides dropping the matter entirely. Instead, Andrew lands his gaze on his brother who hasn’t moved an inch.

            “Not hungry?”

            When he doesn’t get an answer, he moves to swipe at the bowl. It seems the movement is enough to jar Aaron into action because it earns him a growl as his twin moves the bowl out of reach.

            “Keep your grubby paws off.”

            “Then eat it instead of staring at it.”

            This earns him another glare, but it produces the desired effect as Aaron begins to eat. This time without the tense line of his shoulders next to his ears.

***

            Once Aaron had begun to relax around the noise, it was time for Andrew to move onto the second phase of his plan. This part proved to be more complex than the last, mainly because it involved Andrew spending more than a few minutes in his twin’s company. Something that was becoming increasingly difficult seeing as how the other almost immediately hurried into his room after school and didn’t emerge unless it was to eat or use the bathroom. So, Andrew had to get a bit creative in his measures.

            It started with barging into Aaron’s room at random hours of the night, loud enough to wake him up but never moving into the room until he was awake enough and on his feet (he would at least allow him that much). From there he would casually walk in and steal a cigarette from his pack (despite his own still having plenty left) or take a textbook for a class he didn’t even have. Then he would simply walk out, closing the door behind him with a slam. Each time Aaron would look on the brink of murder, yet when he opens his mouth to say something, the words die on his tongue. At times like these, Andrew merely raises an unamused brow before walking out.

            By the fourth time, it is time to take it a step further and he starts dumping his dirty laundry or dishes onto Aaron’s pile whenever he’s doing chores. A simple “Do it” before strolling off and sitting on his ass in plain views. He could see his brother’s irritation growing. He upped the frequency.

            It was another week before Aaron finally broke.

            Andrew has just dumped a pile of dishes into the sink the moment Aaron had finished washing his own (a calculated move on Andrew’s part) and was walking away when Aaron whipped around to pin his brother with a glare.

            “Fuck you,” he growls, “You clean it.”

            “No.”

            He moves to leave when Aaron shoots out an arm to stop him. Instinctively, he bats it away and turns his own glare on his twin. Aaron quickly shies away, shrinking into himself as if he’s expecting a blow. Andrew just stares at him bored.

            It takes several moments before Aaron opens his eyes to meet Andrew’s bored look, confusion quickly crossing his face as if he cannot fathom that Andrew isn’t beating him right now.

            “What are you waiting for Aaron?” a cruel smirk tugs on his lips, “a slap in the face? Or perhaps a fist to the head? Sorry, but mommy dearest is dead.”

            Andrew can see the moment his words sink in and the spark of annoyance turns to a blaze of pure hatred in Aaron’s eyes. He smirks in earnest now, not cowed by Aaron’s anger, and turns on his feet to leave the kitchen. He barely makes it to the archway before a glass crashes mere inches from his head.

            Adrenaline floods his system and his muscles tense for a fight, hands curling into fists before he can tap down the instinct fast enough to retain his unaffected façade. His heart is pounding in his ears, but as he turns around his face is as blank as ever, giving no clue to the war his memories wage in his brain.

            “Fuck you, you worthless piece of shit,” Aaron is nearly foaming at the mouth.

            “Looks like someone found their backbone. Tell me, where was it? Buried in that grave with your mother’s corpse?”

            Another dish goes flying at his head. Andrew doesn’t even flinch this time (though it is a near thing).

            “ _Shut up_.”

            Andrew shrugs, “If you’re looking for a replacement to whack you around, I’m afraid you’re not going to find it in this house. I refuse to play abusive mommy and I don’t think Nicky has the stomach for it.”

            This time it’s a plate that goes flying at his head quickly followed by a mug.

            “Fuck you.”

            “You already said that one. Twice in fact.”

            Aaron was not impressed in the last glass flying at his head was anything to go by. This time Andrew had to actually duck to avoid being hit. When he straightens, he surveys the damage that had been done. All the glasses that had been in the sink now litter the floor in sharp little shards. In the middle of it all stands Aaron fuming, hands bunched up at his sides and chest heaving with jagged broken breaths.

            “Are you done?” he asks.      

            Aaron growls.

            “Clean it up.”

            “Clean it up yourself!” he shoves past Andrew, glass crunching beneath his boots with every stomp.

            Andrew listens as they make their way to the hall just in time for the front door to jingle open and Nicky’s usual greeting to float in the kitchen.

            “Hey, guys- Oh hi Aaron how was-” his words are cut off by an indignant squawk.

            Andrew spares the kitchen a single glance before following his brother’s exit and making his way to the den. He passes Nicky in the hall just in time to catch him looking up at the ceiling, supposedly after Aaron.

            “Is he okay?”

            A slam of a bedroom door echoes throughout the house and vibrates the picture on the wall.

            “Seems fine to me,” Andrew shrugs.

            He ignores the look Nicky sends his way and settles himself into one of the couch cushions. A few moments later Nicky calls from the kitchen. “Um, Andrew? Why is there glass all over the floor?”

            After that day Aaron stops walking around as if he’s a mouse, instead adopting Andrew’s habit of slamming things around. He even starts coming out of his room more often if only to steal Andrew’s spot on the couch or make noise when he was trying to read or smoke in peace. He lets it slide, for now, allowing his brother a few days to revel in his new-found backbone before he puts his foot down.

            For now, he listens to Nicky and Aaron’s laughter as it floats onto the back porch and mingles with the smoke in the air. It sounds like something that could be home.

# III. Neil

              Andrew doesn’t know why he gives Neil the key. Sure, if pressed for an answer, he would come up with the excuse that is was to ensure his little rabbit didn’t run off before their deal was done, but the truth of the matter is that he could not figure out what compelled him to do so.

            Maybe it was the look in his eyes when Nicky was talking about the house at Eden’s one night, his face twisted in confusion as if he cannot comprehend having a permanent address (then again, he supposes it is a strange concept for someone whose first instinct is to run). He thinks it could be the way his eyes linger around the neighborhood, quickly and quietly marking all the places of escape and potential threats.

            Really, he thinks it’s because of the way Neil traces the teeth of the key over and over again on his palm, even when the key was tucked away in his pocket. Like it’s his reminder that this is real. That _he_ is real.

            And if the lingering electricity still races through his veins from when he pressed the metal into Neil’s palm, Andrew thinks nothing of it. Because Neil is nothing and so is whatever Andrew feels. Until it isn’t. Suddenly nothing began to blur into something and something turned into what Andrew refuses to say.

            So, Andrew gave Neil a key. Yet somehow the idiot still fails to grasp exactly what that means. No, if Andrew thought Aaron had wandered around the house like a ghost, Neil was a breeze floating in the air. Any trace of him disappeared the second he left the room, no empty dishes sitting in the sink, no shoes or keys in the entryway, not even an indention on the couch (not that he would ever sit down on the thing unless someone else did first). It was almost as if he did not exist which pissed him off seeing as how a certain idiot kept insisting that he wasn’t a pipe dream.

            Andrew finally decided to put an end to it one night while they were sharing a cigarette. They had just gotten back from Eden’s Twilight and had managed to corral their drunken menagerie into their respective rooms and couches. Plumes of smokes were traded between their lips and tongues as they settled into a silence for the rest of the night. They sat next to each other, close enough for Andrew to reach out and entwine their fingers but far enough that it doesn’t look like he wants to. Instead, he takes another drag of his cigarette before blowing out rings of smoke.

            “I thought you weren’t a pipe dream.”

            Neil picks up his head in confusion, “I’m not.”

            Andrew takes another careful drag. This time he blows a cloud of smoke in Neil’s face. “Could have fooled me.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Andrew waves a hand towards the house. Neil follows his movements to the back door and stares at it like it will magically tell him the answers he seeks. Unsurprisingly it doesn’t.

            “I don’t understand.”

            Andrew scoffs, not really knowing what else he expected. He takes another drag.

            “Andrew,” Neil’s voice is soft but insistent, enough so that it draws Andrew’s attention back. His eyes are determined and vulnerable, only ever in the way he lets them be when they are alone. It’s almost as if he’s trying to figure out the meaning behind Andrew’s words and notes the hidden concern in his voice. He hates him all the more for it.

            “Help me understand.”

            The please is hidden in his words but never spoken (and he never would, not after what he learned the word meant to Andrew). It is only because of this that Andrew gives him a straight answer.

            “You walk around here like you don’t exist.” He looks away, “If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to come. No one is going to force you anymore.”

            _Stay_ , his heart pleads. But he has long since learned to ignore its whispers (too many broken promises and empty words for him to ever give into it again). Because if Neil did not want to be here, Andrew wouldn’t hold him captive. Not when he had already fought so hard for the freedom he has now. Not when he bled for it as much (if not more) than Andrew had. Besides, Andrew always knew he’d leave one day.

            “I want to be here.” Neil answers with no hesitation, “I want to be with _you_.”

            His confidence falters, “Unless… you don’t want me to anymore?”

            Andrew throws him a blank look but reaches over to entangle their fingers. Neil visibly relaxes.

            “Then why?”

            He tenses again, “I don’t- It’s just-”

            He growls in frustration and drags a hand harshly through his curls. Andrew noted that they were getting long again, he’d have to look into a barber they could go to tomorrow (or somehow bribe Allison into doing it again. He’d ask Renee). When it doesn’t look like Neil was going to find the words anytime soon, Andrew takes one final drag before pulling the cigarette from his lips and placing it between Neil’s. His hand carefully reaches to stead it before taking a shaky drag, only enough to ensure it kept burning (such a fucking waste). He squeezes Andrew’s fingers lightly in thanks. It does nothing to stop the jolt of electricity that races through his veins.

            “I never had this,” he finally speaks, a general nod in the direction of the house, “A home. When we were on the run, my mom and I barely stopped long enough to remember the address, let alone to get comfortable enough to kick off my shoes at the door.”

            He traces that familiar pattern into Andrew’s palm. “There was no key, no personal belongings strewn about. No pictures on the walls.”

            Andrew had noticed how Neil’s eyes had tended to linger on Dan’s photo wall in the Fox lounge in the stadium, how he’d remain transfixed there in the moment after a game or before one of Kevin’s late-night practices. He could see his gaze landing heavily on the pictures of himself, the collection has grown the bolder their captain (and her overly enthusiastic boyfriend) became. There were photos of him sweaty after a game, a tired smile on his face as Boyd slung an arm over his shoulders and pulled him tightly into his side (something that had Andrew reaching for his knives). There were pictures of Neil sleepy on the bus, of him out at dinner with Renee and Allison, of Nicky and Boyd hoisting him onto their shoulders after him scoring the winning goal. All of them captured moments of his life as Neil Josten. Andrew could see the way his finger itched to run over them as if to assure himself that they were real. He also noticed how that same gaze and itch reared itself when he saw Nicky’s photo in the entryway.

            “The only thing close you could say was back when we were in Baltimore.” His eyes empty out of all emotion, and he takes a drag in earnest now. Andrew tightens their hands together.

            “But even then, it was never really a home. Not with my father lurking around every corner or Lola waiting in the shadows for me to make a mistake.” He shakes his head, “I was in that house for 10 years before my mother took me and ran. _10 years_ and it still wasn’t enough. I wasn’t quiet enough coming down the stairs. I wasn’t still enough during dinner. It wasn’t enough that I cleaned the dishes, the floor was a mess too.”

            Another drag, another billow of smoke lost in the night air.

            “I don’t know how to belong. There was never an opportunity for me to learn how.” His blue eyes finally find Andrew’s brown ones, “Until now. Until you.”

            He stubs the cigarette out and turns to fully face him, turning their hand so they can lock together.

            “I want to learn how” he whispers, “I want to belong with you. Will you teach me?”

            Andrew’s chest tightens, pulse racing and his throat going dry. “Yes or no?”

            “Yes,” Neil breathes and Andrew pulls their lips together.

            They kiss away the rest of the night and the memories that hide at the back of their minds.

***

            Christmas was coming and somehow Andrew got roped into hosting the Foxes in Columbia, something he blames entirely on Nicky (and mostly Neil for quietly agree that it would “nice”). The only saving grace was that he was spared having to worry about any of the preparation; he had made it very clear that if they wanted to do this, they would be doing it themselves.

            Instead, Andrew parked himself on the couch surrounded by sugary sweets (curtsey of Bee’s Christmas gift) and whiskey (Wymack’s) while his cousin, brother, and his idiot scrambled to get the house in order. Neil would occasionally throw a pleading glance his way every now and then before Nicky inevitably dragged him away to readjust the décor for what seems like the 10th time. Andrew pointedly chews a piece from his chocolate bar as he watches Neil disappear around the corner. He dug his own grave.

            Eventually, he is shooed out of the living room and into his own to get dressed for the evening (only after Nicky bribed him with whiskey ice cream for dessert). He is rooting around in his closet for something to wear when Neil barges in and promptly shut is behind him, chest heaving for air.

            “Your cousin is insane,” he pants.

            “You did this to yourself,” Andrew reminds him.

            “I only said that it would be _nice_ for everyone to be together before Christmas started and everyone left. _Not_ that the house had to be reorganized a hundred times only to end up exactly how we did it for the first.”

            “Sounds like you should learn to keep your mouth shut,” Andrew pulls free a pair of black slacks and a pale orange dress shirt that he promptly throws at Neil. “I’ve been trying to tell you this for months.”

            “Shut up,” he growls as he plucks them from the air, “Are these new?”

            Andrew hums his reply and pulls out a pair of jeans and a matching shirt for himself (all black, of course, none of that god damn orange). Once he pulls them on, he walks over to his bed and reaches for the box he has hidden under there about a week ago. Neil eyes the box curiously.

            “What’s that?”

            “Open it and find out,” he answers as he moves to the window to crack it open and reach for a pack of cigarettes.

            “Are we doing this now? You don’t want to wait until everyone gets here?”

            When Andrew doesn’t answer, Neil just sighs before slipping out the door half dressed (though enough to hide the worst of his scars). Andrew quietly flicks his lighter to life, pulling in a breath enough to spark the red ember to life. He only gets through a couple of drags before Neil returns with a box of is own. This one is wrapped in all black with a large bow taped to one of the corners. Neil’s cheeks flush with color when he catches Andrew eyeing the gift.

            “I had Nicky helped me wrap it, but I already had the box taped up by then, so he couldn’t peek.”

            Andrew raises an eyebrow at that and his flush deepens. “Not like _that_. It’s just- Fuck, just- here.”

            Andrew blows his smoke out the window before tucking it into the corner of his mouth to hold. “Go open yours.”

            “I want to see you open yours first,” he pouts, brow creased in that indignant way of his every time someone tells him what to do (real authority issues that one). Andrew just stares at him until he finally huffs before stomping over to the bed where the gift lays on the covers.

            As Neil stares down at the gift, Andrew tears at the edge of the wrapping paper, making quick work of the bow and paper to reveal a sleek black case like one of those that people use to lock away jewelry.

            “I swear to god Josten if you got me jewelry, I’ll throw it and you out this window.”

            Neil hums noncommittedly, “Just open it.”

            He waits until he hears Neil begin to open his one before he pops the latch and opens the lid. Inside there are a pair of armbands in a smooth black material that slides under his fingers, an embroidered AM resting on the edge in black thread, so no one could see if they weren’t looking for it. Next to those were a pack of cigarettes of the brand he likes but Neil hates, an engraved steel lighter with the same AM, and a jar of his favorite candy. Underneath it all lays an elongated box that when he picks it up has a considerable weight to it. As he slides off the lid, he is greeted with the gleam of a knife.

            It’s not one that is meant to sit inside his new armbands (though those do have custom sheaths built in) but rather was a folding knife that could easily sit in his pocket or clipped on the inside of his jeans. He flicks it open to reveal the blade’s matte black finish, the blade itself having a slight curve with a serrated edge near where his thumb would rest.

            “It’s got a nice balance to it. Not too heavy as to slow your draw but not quite light enough to throw.”

            Neil’s fingers curl around Andrews, slowly and light enough for Andrew to pull away if he wanted to, and guides him through a slow fluid motion. The knife slices through the air before tipping up as if to stab someone in their jaw. (They have the nicest moments together.)

            “Perfect for your fighting style.”

            Andrew hums as he pulls his hand away and closes the knife, tucking it away from as far from Neil as he can (knowing that his idiot still could not stomach them for long). He slides the container from his lap and reaches for Neil’s chin. He steps into Andrew’s space with a silent yes and Andrew tugs him in to press his lips into a soft kiss. Neil sighs into it and tries to deepen it to something more, but he pulls away and shoves him lightly back in the direction towards the bed.

            “Open. Now.”

            Neil huffs in annoyance but the look is softened by the smile still spread across his lips. He returns to the bed and opens the lid to his own gift (the wrapping paper having already been neatly put off to the side). Confusion, surprise and a hint of disbelief glint across his features before he schools his face into this usual calm façade.

            If he was anyone else —if _Neil_ was anyone else— he would think Neil hated it. As it is, Andrew just takes another drag as he waits for Neil to sort his thoughts. He watches as he pulls the colorful box from the mess of tissue paper.

            “Andrew.” His voice is thick with emotion as he slowly turns around with the box carefully cradled in his hands.

            Andrew’s eyes quickly dip to the gift. He had found it online one evening after Neil had already fallen asleep at his side. It was one of those new Polaroid cameras that were made to look like their 1970s model (because people were hipster fucking trash). All he cared about was that it was a camera and the film was large enough to fit in seamlessly with Dan’s photos in the lounge (if Neil chose to add to it).

            “Do you know how to use it?”

            It was permission, an answer given in silence to the question Neil had asked all those nights ago. Andrew had given him the tools necessary to make this life real to him, to cement his existence in something tangible—in a way he never could before. It was permission to live, to set roots, to create memories and connections. Most of all it was permission to stay.

            Neil pauses for a long moment, before shaking his head. “No. Show me?”

            Andrew stubs the cigarette out on the windowsill before beckoning Neil over to show him how to load the film and line up a show in the viewfinder. When he was done, Neil gently puts the camera down.

            “Yes or no?”

            “Yes.”

            Neil places a kiss on his face before murmuring the words “Thank you” into his skin. Two weeks later a group photo of the Foxes in front of the Christmas tree joins Nicky’s photo in the entryway.

# +1 Andrew

              The word home never really meant anything to Andrew before. Home was the place he was shuffled in and out of for years as a child, a different room, color, and family every time. Sometimes he wasn’t even that lucky, home being the cold floor of a garage in the middle of the winter. Home was a string of abusers from the age of 5, each with promises of stopping if he was a “good boy” or if he’d beg. It never stopped.

            By the time he had made it to the Spear household, home meant nothing to Andrew anymore, closing himself off to any hope that this one would be any different. He met Cass’s kind smile and careful touches with unveiled apprehension and mistrust, not bothering to hide his sharp edges and even sharper words. Yet, instead of striking out or sending him away like all the others had, she would simply smile and ask him what he wanted for dinner that night.

            Slowly (almost painfully so) home became baked cookies late at night when his nightmares woke him up. It was a brand-new room with new clothes and new furniture. Home was Cass’s soft smiles and Richard’s hearty laugh at dinner. And for a single moment —just a single moment— Andrew thought that just maybe he finally found his home.

            Then Drake came home, and Andrew quickly realized that he would never have one. Even the Spear household with all its pretty furniture and smiling family photos was just another enticing web ready to hang him the moment he let his guard down (and oh did he ever let it down) until he thought he was safe. He was never going to be safe. It was about time he learned that.

            But something inside him clung so desperately to the lie that was Cass Spear. He wanted so badly to believe that if he could survive Drake for the next year, he would have that home he craved so badly, the one he had gotten just a taste of before Drake. And he could have it again. So, he gritted his teeth every time Drake’s figure would fill his doorway late at night and sought a release through a sharp blade hidden underneath the bottom of his dresser drawer.

            For the next year, home became a mess of raised lines on his arms and the looming figures of a man at his bedside when he closed his eyes. It was going to kill him. Still, he just kept chanting the same words over and over again. Just a few more month, as his fingers dug into the headboard, just a few more months as his touch lingered on Andrew’s skin despite scrubbing it raw. Just a few more months and it would all be over.

            And it almost was until he got that letter in the mail, the one telling him that he had a twin out there. That he had someone that wanted to meet him, a _brother_ who wanted _him_. Andrew crumpled the letter and threw it away (he didn’t need to be wanted by anyone else. Cass was enough). Somehow Drake still found it and showed it to his mother, raving how nice it would be for Andrew to be reunited with his family, for them to all meet. Cass ate it all up.

            Later that night when Drake had crawled into his bed, he whispered about how perfect it would be to have both of them underneath him, how he couldn’t wait to see if his brother moaned the same way Andrew did. It would never happen— he would _never_ let it happen. His usual mantra of just a few months more playing in an endless loop.

Justafewmonthsmorejustafewmonthsmorejustafewmonths-

            Then Drake told him he delayed his deployment for another year. That night Andrew knew that this would never be home.

            Home after that became a small concrete cell just big enough to fit a bed, a toilet, and a sink with bars on the windows and a plexiglass wall in place of a solid door. Privacy became a privilege he didn’t have as he was forced to live every moment of every day with his movements watched and cataloged by some bastard in a uniform. He was forced to share his thoughts with a group of strangers every week and expected to listen while other prattled on about their own issues. To make matters worse, his free time wasn’t even his own anymore, instead, it is devoted to a fucking sport he didn’t even like.

            The next stop after that was a cramped little apartment across the country, the air too sticky and thick and the sky an almost permanent grey compared to the sunny breezy air of California. Home was a drunken woman who couldn’t even meet his eyes and had an even harder time keeping her hands to herself. Even his so-called brother who wanted to meet him so _badly_ could barely meet his eyes, rather spend the majority of his time pretending the other didn’t exist at all. Then Tilda smacked Aaron one time too many and Andrew decided to make a little deal. It wasn’t long before they were leaving that apartment for a house in some shitty little neighborhood in Columbia.

            So really, this stop was never supposed to amount to anything other than a place to rest his head at night. Despite Nicky’s insistence on family dinners and frivolous decorations strewn about the place, Andrew had long since closed himself off. Never again would he allow himself to be fooled by another Cass or another pretty room. He would be and feel nothing.

            But that was never really possible, was it?

            He looks around at the dark room surrounding him now. The only light pouring in through the cracked window and the burning ember of the cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes wander to the closet stuffed full of black clothing and the ever few hints of orange peeking out. He looks at the rows of books lining the shelves to his left, to the exy rackets resting against the wall next to them. He thinks of the locked door leading to the room, the only key looped on his keychain resting on his nightstand. Flicking his gaze up he sees the wall of polaroids behind his bed.

            Pictures of the Foxes throughout the years, of exy games and practices, of Nicky and Aaron elbowing each other as they play video games, of Kevin downing a whole bottle of vodka. They were of Boyd’s wide smile as he carries a surly Neil in his arms, of coach’s famous scowl, of Abby laughing, of Bee looking calm and smiling at the camera. He sees pictures of himself, numerous snapshots despite him not looking at the camera in a single one. Pictures of him reading, a blurry one from Eden’s as he carries the large tray of drinks, of him smoking with the sun casting him in a silhouette and a trail of smoke leaving from his lips. It was his entire life displayed in photographs. Well, not really _his_ life.

            His eyes drop to the lithe muscular form that is hidden beneath the bundle of blankets on his bed, a shock of red curls peeking out from under them against the stark white pillows. If he were to pull the blanket down it would reveal the flutter of dark lashes against a pale cheek and a face marred with scars. It was a picture so soft and peaceful Andrew would think it fake if not for the slow rise and fall of the chest and the slight grumble falling from those lips as Neil turns to bury himself in the spot where Andrew had laid.

            Andrew thinks about how across the hall; his brother would be a similar picture (and how he would loathe the thought) and below that his cousin and even Kevin in the den would be deep in their sleep cycles. Everything and everyone he kept close was safe and warm in a quiet house with no threat on the horizon.

            “Andrew.”

            He looks over to see Neil sitting up on the bed, eyes still bleary with sleep and hair sticking up in the most ridiculous places. His chest tightens, and he must hold himself back from reaching out to smooth it down.

            “Is everything okay?”

            “It’s fine,” Andrew answers softly, “Go back to sleep.”

            “Come back to bed?”

            He simply shakes his head no and turns back to the window. The shuffling of blankets and pillows fill the empty room and Andrew assumes Neil is settling back in the covers when a second later a blanket is being wrapped around his shoulders. He glances over to see Neil sleepily rubbing his eyes while stretching out the muscle in his back.  Silently, he moves over enough for Neil to join him at the windowsill, blanket held open for him to slot himself to his side.

            “Yes or no?” his idiot murmurs as he climbs in, pulling the blanket shut around them to ward off the evening chill.

            “Yes.”

            Neil wraps an arm loosely around Andrew’s waist and tucks his face into the crook of Andrew’s neck, a soft sigh escaping his lips and breath skating across his skin. Neil goes pliant in his arms after that.

            “Idiot,” he sighs even as he places a kiss on the crown of his head.

            “Your idiot,” Neil mumbles into his neck.

            “Shut up.”

            “’kay.”

            Andrew waits until Neil’s breath evens out before he wraps his arm more securely around Neil to keep him from falling off, pressing his idiot further into his side. _Home_. He takes another drag as the word tumbles around on his tongue. Somehow he thinks he might have found it regardless.

**Author's Note:**

> How was it? Did I get my boys right? I hope they weren't too soft- oh who am I kidding I LIVE for soft Andreil. I hope you all enjoyed this fic and that you comment what you thought or even come visit me on [tumblr](http://thebashfulpoet.tumblr.com/)? I love to hear from each and every one of you even if it's just a simple comment on how you liked it!


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